April is gray

April is gray this year, the way it should be. I was worried after such a sunny March. Years ago when I worked in a lumberyard there was an April when the sun did not shine once; at least not that I can remember; and it rained and rained until the river backed up into the millbrook which backed up into the lumberyard, forcing the foreman to move piles of vulnerable plywood and drywall. By the end of the month, we all became irritable from lack of sun. April can be that way: gray, now cold and now warm, showers, drizzle, rain, too much wind, the time of sunset too rapidly changing; a month that tries patience and fortitude. Because of the grayness I often find myself staying inside, even though it’s pleasant outside; or when I go outside I keep my head down, and only with difficulty do I look up to see masses of white blossoms covering a tree; only with difficulty do I hear and listen to a House Finch singing its amazingly liquid song. I notice the dandelions’ first yellow blooms only to think, Now that they’ve bloomed they’ll be too bitter to eat. On Sunday, I saw a two-year-old in his mother’s arms, clutching a dandelion bloom and grinning, but he was also clutching a piece of crumpled paper and a piece of candy in the same hand and I couldn’t say which he grinned at. I suppose if I lifted my head more, or paid more attention to what I hear, April would feel less gray; but I happen to like gray, and for that reason I like April.